Stormie and the Hapless Girl
by Virodeil
Summary: A girl once admired an apparently-violent, unpredictable Maia from The Silmarillion very much. The girl now… umm… erh… Well, she is currently, unexpectedly visited by the Maia, you see, and have to… well, deal with the reality, aside from her daily routine, not-so-daily routine, and family. ***Part of Plushy Toys Collaboration and rated T for a reason.
1. Preface & Day 0

**Title:** Stormie and the Hapless Girl  
**Author:** Eärillë  
**Beta-Reader:** None

**Story Type:** Fanfiction  
**Book/Fandom:** The Silmarillion, Real Life  
**Language Used:** English, Indonesian (Bahasa Indonesia)

**Challenge:** the Plushy Toys Collaboration

**Summary:** A girl once admired an apparently-violent, unpredictable Maia from _The Silmarillion_ very much. The girl now… umm… erh… Well, she is currently, unexpectedly visited by the Maia, you see, and have to… well, deal with the reality, aside from her daily routine, not-so-daily routine, and family. ***Part of Plushy Toys Collaboration, involving a foreign culture and disabled people, and rated T for a reason.

**Credit:** CrackinAndProudOfIt, Duilin**  
Rating:** Pg-13/T/Teens  
**Warnings:** Mature Themes, Mild Language, Mild Violence

**Genres:** Action/Adventure, Character Study, Drama, Family, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Stream-of-Consciousness  
**Characters:** OFC, Ossë  
**Place:** Indonesia: various  
**Timeline:** Modern era: Decembre to January 2011  
**Point of View:** single: first person limited  
**Word Count:** 5,728

**Disclaimers:** The Plushy Toys Collaboration series belong to CrackinAndProudOfIt and Duilin and shared with other authors writing in the same series. The patented characters and settings belong to Tolkien Estate and its associates. The original characters and ideas belong to Rey as the author of this story. No infringement is intended to the copyright holders of Arda Legendarium, no plagiarism is intended to the other authors writing for the same series, and no profit is intentionally made by writing and publishing this story.

**Author's Notes:** CrackinAndProudOfIt finally convinced me to contribute to this collaboration… Well, thank you then, Crackers! I just hope I can pull this off, and somebody might like it, because I doubt I will, what with my unfamiliarity with the genres and lack of devoted time and energy. But truly, I would be very glad if you would leave a review, except for flames. Criticisms accompanied with sensical reasons would be greatly appreciated, but flames always seem useless and hurtful to me.

**Story Notes:** There are some things you must know about the story in general and also the two main characters in the fic. Please understand and remember these, because I shall not repeat them in the next chapters. If there is any point below that offends you or does not agree with you, please leave this fic quietly. I respect the diversity of freedom rather highly. And without further adue, the points are:  
**1.** The story will not be updated daily, and perhaps not even weekly, and the word count for each chapter will most likely not exceed 2,000. I simply do not have the time and energy to devote to this project regularly because of suffocating RL. I do not know when next I can steal a respite to write. And admittedly, I only plunged into this project because of curiosity and the mild temptation imposed by Crackers.  
**2.** The story will not be all humorous, as I said previously; it is basically a character study of both the OFC and the Maia and their reluctant friendship, so rather serious at some points. As the general idea of the series is not that familiar to me, I have chosen to dwell in my comfort zone: character study and hurt/comfort. That said, the said story will also be done in first-person point of view and present tense for the same reason. I know that most of you do not like it, and I am sorry about that, but changing the tense may only come later – after I am more familiar with this project that I am foolhardily undertaking.  
**3.** The rating is mainly for the discussions and actions done by either or both main characters in the story. First, there will be no reference to sexual activities or heavy innuendos, but there will be instances of anatomical descriptions and scenes/references of _pure_ nudity. And second, there will be discussions/references/scenes of topics ranging from religions to spiritual preferences; and given that the OFC is a Roman Catholic with a loose attitude to following the religion and surrounded by a culture that leans rather heavily on the spiritual world, I felt it prudent to warn you all. (It is complicated by the fact that our star character is a Maia: a spiritual being by nature.)  
**4.** If you have not read other stories from the Plushy Toys Collaboration series, please note that this is a self-insert Silmarillion fanfiction, although a _real_ self-insert, meaning no hidden/unexplained/unnatural powers, as the author is an ordinary human being herself. And seeing that I – the author – am blind and not expecting to regain my sight any time soon if ever, there will be no cure for the blindness spoken or enacted in this fic as well.

**In the Chapter:** The result of her procrastination finally nips Rey in the butt, and an E-mail ruins her plans for at least the next thirty days.**  
Chapter Rating:** PG/K+**  
Chapter Warnings:** Mild Language  
**Chapter Word Count:** 1,855

**Chapter Notes:** I tried my best to come up with an original idea for the starter chapter, but it was hard. I never saw this idea I'm using displayed in the same way by the other authors for this series though.

**Day 0  
Too Late, Lately**

Sunday, 17 Decembre 2011

The hours seem to be crawling so slowly today. Perhaps it's because the hot and humid day, unusual for the rainy season that has been dominating the country this year, or perhaps because I'm just too tired and lethargic to pay attention to anything after running errands around the city for the whole day. It's 07:36 in the evening right now and I'm already sorely tempted to go to bed. Sadly, I do need to at least make a little dent on the virtual pile of report cards I need to make on the computer. I've already lied to the headmaster last Friday about finishing most of them already…

But escaping to the Internet-Land a wee bit won't hurt, will it? Anyway, it's been some time since last I peeked into my E-mail account, let alone browsing for leisure. So, armed with yet another excuse to procrastinate on the work I'm supposed to be doing, I close the file on the accumulated grades of the students eagerly and, with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, open the Internet browser and type in my E-mail address. I _really_ should have checked for important messages or mails from friends at least once a week and no excuse. These days this bad habbit of mine might cost me friendship and lost chances, I tell myself; but, like in all previous times, it doesn't work.

As the screen reader is reporting the progress of the webpage download, I tip the back of the revolving chair backwards a little and rest my feet on the writing desk, trying to relax myself and my nerves. I've got an ominous feeling with this visit to my E-mail inbox, and I don't know why, and it now doesn't feel like an escape from work at all.

It's too late though.

The webpage is fully open now according to the screen reader. I seize the wireless keyboard from the desktop with nervous eagerness and hit some keys repeatedly until I arrive at the top mail. No need to see how many unread mail I've got in the inbox. There are always at least 11 and now I'm afraid to see how many I haven't read.

It's proving to be a rather wise choice as I'm browsing carefully down the list with the down-arrow key, feeling more and more apprehensive with each mail passed. The first few are alert mails to the few communities on I'm a staff of, mixed with one or two reviews and a bunch of story and favourite alerts from the same fanfiction website. To my surprise, I've gotten a few more reviews from a few other similar sites. (My stories don't attract reviewers, and I've long reconciled myself to that.) But there is nothing extraordinary overall, and so I move to the second page when I hit the bottom of the list.

A few more alert mails greeted me on the new page, and I feel both relieved and disappointed that no one has written or replied me yet. I continue going down the list,

And then my finger freezes, as the screen reader says "FAULTTY Foundation" and "A Big Thank You for You!" as the subject below it.

… Faulty? …

Huh… Does "faulty" have another meaning, other than what I've known so far? English isn't my mother language, after all, and this whole mail seems to be written in that language.

But then I return to the sender's name and hit the right-arrow key repeatedly to spell out the name, and become a little bit more relaxed. All capital letters! (The higher pitch of the screen reader indicates that.) And there are two 'T's on the word, too. An acronym, then. I thought I'd been pranked! Now I only need to see what "FAULTTY" defines as, and the only way is to read the mail.

So I do just that, as I gear my brain towards reading in English.

**Dear Virodeil,**

**First of all, we of the Famous Authors Using Living Toys to Thank You Foundation would like to thank you for your help as a part of the community of fanfiction writers to enrich the worlds created by J. R. R. Tolkien and several other authors by contributing fanfiction stories to the designated websites. **

**Furthermore, as recommended by a few fanfiction writers who write for the world of J. R. R. Tolkien, we would like to solidify our thanks to you by giving you a chance to meet your favourite character(s) in person via their plushy toys. We hope that you would accept this token of our gratitude and further enrich our community, as several others have.**

**To choose your plushy toy(s), please simply send the name(s) and race(s) of your choice(s) to plushy with " Plushy Choice" as the mail subject, and the toys will be sent to your address within a week at most. If you do not have time to write a separate mail however, please fill in the form near the bottom of this notification mail and click okay. Please beware that the toys are activated upon touch and will be retracted back to us within 30 days (one month), as we would like to award as many authors as possible with the limited means that we have. If you have chosen more than one toy and really wish to keep at least one with you for a longer time, please choose your most favourite among the toys and send his or her name and race to plushy with "Extention Period" as the mail subject before the 30-day period ends, and you will be allowed to keep him or her for the maximum period of 365 days (one year) before he or she will be retracted by us.**

**In addition, you may recommend the next 3 fanfiction authors at most (excluding yourself) whom we would consider of awarding this same chance. Please be as clear as possible about the writers' names and the worlds they write for, and please include their E-mail addresses if you know any of theirs. You may also recommend what characters each of them might like, and we will put your recommended characters into consideration as we send them the same notification E-mails as which you are currently reading.**

**Please note that if you have not put on any request for the plushy toy(s) within 7 days (168 hours) from the date of this notification mail, we will assume that you accept to be the guardian of one or more plushy toys for the next 30 days and do not wish to change or add to the plushy toy(s) recommended by the aforementioned fanfiction writers. And for the sake of guarding the privacy of the aforementioned fanfiction writers, we are not going to divulge to you any information about them.**

**Sincerely,  
the FAULTTY Faundation**

**Request Form**

**Penname: Virodeil  
Alternate Penname(s): Eärillë, wind rider  
Real Name: Rey**

**Involved in:  
Worlds: _The Arda Legendarium_ by J. R. R. Tolkien, _The Harry Potter Series_ by J. K. Rowling, _The Inheritance Cycle_ by C. Paolini, _The Narnia Chronicles_ by C. S. Lewis  
Websites: , Many Paths To Tread, Silmarillion Writers' Guild, Stories of Arda, , , Shur'tugal Fan Fiction**

**Recommended Character:  
Name: Ossë  
Race: Maia  
World: _The Arda Legendarium_ by J. R. R. Tolkien**

**Chosen Character(s): …  
Name(s): …  
Race(s): …  
World(s): …  
Note: You are allowed to have 5 plushy toys at most at any given time**

**Submit Preview**

I frown. The mail is long, but not terribly so, but it is not what has made me tense up in the first place. It is too secretive and accurate for my comfort! And what about some plushy toys… and "activated by touch"? Plushy toys don't need any kind of activation, do they? They are only look-alikes from books, films or cartoons made of fabric and stuffed by Dacron, plastic pellets or even packing peanuts, no? Now I wish my grasp on English words and culture were a little better. Whom can I ask about this?

But then, something snags my attention as I replay the odd mail in my head.

The date of the letter.

I hurriedly push the cursor back up using the up-arrow and page-up keys, hunting for the date of the letter's arrival above the mail itself as I straighten up in my seat and put my feet on the ceramic floor, ready for the worst and hoping for the best.

Saturday, 9 Decembre 2011.

I freeze up again, now with certain terror, despite all the flimsy mental preparation. The date was _eight_ days ago! What should I do? What can I do? But it's not like the Valar and Maiar are purely incarnate beings, right? I might be able to conceal any anomaly from my family if I got him to consent to a few rules… right? How would a Maia ever consent of being shipped off to who-knows-where? How, anyway?

And how will the unwanted gift reach me too? Neither mail nor package delivery can reach my home for some reason, and so they are always dropped off at my fraternal grandparents' house, and some of the people who live there are as nosy as one might imagine…

I hunker down, resting my forehead on the cool, smooth surface of the glass sheet covering the desktop, sighing in defeat and amplified exhaustion. This is quickly becoming a scene out of a horror film, with all the unpleasant surprise and terror involved. To think that I hate horror films…

Terror…

What an apt name. And soon, in whichever way, I shall be dealing with the "plushy-toy" form of the very person that bears the name. It was fun and fine when I _only_ dealt with him in my own imagination and stories! How shall I tell my parents, grandparents and assortment of relatives? My younger brother is thankfully away in Taiwan, studying for his master degree, so I can have the bedroom for myself and all the relative privacy it affords, but I cannot confine a spirit within such a small space. I doubt he would even deign listen to any kind of rule I will try to impose on him. He is always portrayed as the rule-breaking type in _The Silmarillion_.

Huh… how weird is that? A character straight out of a book of fancies written by a dead man. A _living_, _tangible_ character, and I got the dubious pleasure of hosting one particularly-unpredictable person out of the impressive lot.

Dazed, I close the webpage without much thought and turn off the computer. As I have been prepared to crash into the dreamland since some time ago anyway, I only wait for the CPU to really die down to turn off the internet modem, switch off the stabiliser and plug off the speakers, before climbing to bed and curling up around my pillow and boulster under the blanket, feet tucked into a pair of woollen socks and an arm curled around my sleep companion: an old stuffed lion-cub I named Spencer.

What will come, comes around. I doubt I'll be able to sleep much tonight with the threat of receiving a virtual time-bomb in the very near future, though, all the same.


	2. Day 1 Part 1

**In the Chapter:** A bleary Rey gets a few surprises that makes her too wide awake.**  
Chapter Rating:** PG/K+**  
Chapter Warnings:** Mild Language  
**Chapter Word Count:** 2,485  
**Chapter Credit: CrackinAndProudOfIt, C. S. Lewis**

**Chapter Notes:**  
The idea of the Envelope comes from CrackinAndProudOfIt. (Thank you so, Crackers!) The one for the box is my own, though. And the idea for the chapter title comes from the second book of _The Chronicles of Narnia_ by C. S. Lewis: _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_.  
I don't know when I can update after this. I updated fairly quickly this time because I knew I had to grab all the chance and the spare time for writing this bit in case my mind baulks and leaves this piece forever, and in case the next month is just as hellish as the last.  
The higher word count is due to some detailed paragraphs, so I'm sorry if you don't like details that much. I hope you still enjoy the rest though. Oh, and there are a few parts for this 'day' only, and perhaps for the next ones as well, so that I can at least have a little hope of managing the word count and updating pace.

**Day 1 Part 1  
The Stone, the Envelope and the Cardboard Box**

Monday, 18 Decembre 2011

I stir sluggishly, caught between sleep and awareness. Something has woken me up, but I do not know what it is. It feels particularly hard for me to rouse myself now. Is that my mother? She sometimes wakes me or my brother – when he is in residence – to help alleviate her bouts of asthma. But she does not seem to be here… Then who or what woke me up?

I curl around myself tighter under my blanket, then stretch out as far as I can while shifting to lie on my back. The somewhat-controlled movement wakes me up a little, so I set aside the blanket in order to wake myself up more, and rise swaying up into a sitting position. I am still feeling quite detached from my own body – I cannot even recall yesterday's events at all – but at least now I am in the position to do something about it.

There are two and a half floors in my odd, tiny home: The ground floor is dedicated entirely for the automobile-gear shop my father runs and its storeroom at once, the second story is the living area, and the last level – half fully walled and the other not – is our collective storeroom and laundry-drying area. The second floor, on which my parents and I are presently, holds two bedrooms: mine and my parents' side by side. Both bedrooms open to a larger central area which works as a dining-room, a living-room, a kitchen, and a workroom at once. A small bathroom nestles opposite the bedrooms across the central area, standing beside the chain of sharply-winding staircases that connects the three stories. So, given the size of this level, and I believe I don't have to venture to the other two levels at all for this purpose, I can search for the intruder thoroughly. (Well, as thoroughly as a desperate and rather frightened blind person can do, that is.)

And the first stop is my own bedroom.

Hesitantly, I get rid of the woollen socks I always wear for sleep and the old, mangy, small stuffed lion-cub named Spencer which always accompanies that pair of socks in my sleep. A familiar apprehension is beginning to rise in my chest, and the odd familiarity troubles me even more than the feeling itself. What have I forgotten? It has something to do with what I did online last night, but my state of awareness right now doesn't support detailed recalling yet unfortunately.

Yah, but I'm presently rather confident that I don't need the said unrecalled bit yet. My 2X3-metre bedroom is tiny – as the size suggests – and fairly cramp with a bunkbed which is currently missing the top bunk, two writing desks and a smaller one, three bigger and smaller cabinets, a showcase propped on one of the largest – not to mention longest – cabinet, and two chairs: a steel folding chair and a revolving office armchair that both I and my younger brother love. But despite that, it is still _my_ bedroom and _my_ things, and I know the place of each item almost intimately. (Well, that is, if nobody has moved any of the things somewhere else, to which offence I always answer with loud complaints.) I will know if there is any living intruder in this private space of mine by stretching out my hearing sense to its limit, and inanimate intruders will be detected once I come upon them. So, cautiously, I hop down my bed – which consists of the lower bunk-frame and two spring-mattresses piled one on top of the other – and slip my feet into my indoor plastic slippers. Armed in my right hand with my folding cane in its folded state, which I hope can act as a weapon if necessary, I trail along the aforementioned largest cabinet, which is placed on the left side of my position and the closest route to the door. Whatever or whoever interrupted my slumber must have come from the door. (Except if the said intruder is the spirit believed to be living on the third floor, against which my makeshift weapon would be totally useless.)

My plastic-slippered feet sweep the ceramic floor carefully as my hands wave carefully before me, both to protect my face and body and to determine the presence of any physical material blocking my way. All along, my heart thumps in my chest and fear makes my arms and back tingle unpleasantly.

Then, as my outstretched left hand touches the far corner of the protruding showcase near the door, and as the tip of my folded cane knocks softly against the clothes-laden plank of the door itself, my right foot, extended in a half-step, accidentally kicks what feels and sounds like a cardboard box, that seems to have been lying on the bit of walkway squeezed in between the tandem cabinet and showcase and my younger brother's writing desk just before the door.

That cardbox wasn't there _last night_!

I've got another, more urgent problem, anyhow. The said box promptly streaks across the small distance on the accidental nudge and, judging from the noises it makes on impact, bumps the partition wall between the two bedrooms before it crashes into a louder, thumping stop against the hollowed wooden board that makes the doorplank.

I wince, and reflexively clutch the cane in a death grip diagonal against my chest.

The sound is _loud_! And my mother is a somewhat light-sleeper…

I freeze, holding my breath. I didn't want to wake my parents up. `_Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up. Sorry. Go back to sleep_,` I murmur repeatedly in my mind, willing neither of them to come checking my bedroom when I'm so jittery and holding the cane like a cricket bat like this.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty – Huh, where is Mum? I'm safe, then? (She is probably the lightest sleeper in our family.)

I loose the breath I held, shuddering and relaxing very, very slowly. Now that the immediate danger has passed though, my earlier apprehension rises again. What is a strange box doing _here_? I _didn't_ put it here last night! Anyhow, I'm never in the habbit of putting moveable – and thus kickable and crashable – things unattached to more familiar, bigger fournitures or marks to avoid this very disaster. My family usually know so much too, though I don't know either to minimalise my discomfort or to avoid listening to my string of complaints afterwards. So _who_ put it _here_?

And the next question: Do I dare open the box, which wasn't there when I slept a few hours ago, last in the family to do so?

Bin it. The real question is: Do I dare _touch_ such an unknown object? I usually don't even dare touch a few objects which have been previously explained with greater or littler detail by my family!

But I'm still sleepy, physically and mentally exhausted, and totally sick with this enigma. Sooner or later, I'll have to at least push the box under the bed-frame to avoid detection and unwanted inquiries by my parents. So, sighing in resignation, I crouch down and creep in a squatting position slowly to where I have heard the box last, as I use the folded cane to sweep the space of air before me a few centimetres from the floor.

I freeze again when the tip of the cane knocks what must be the side of the dratted cardboard box, making it slide away further and thump gently against the partition wall.

_Damn_! Why must it be so difficult? What's in the box anyway? It's so light. The apparent size usually implies a heavier content, but not now, it seems.

Now curiosity begins to impinge in my mind, lessening my fear of unknown objects and intruders…

I drag and guide the box to me using the far end of the folded cane, and follow the motion by walk-squatting backwards. A 30-centimetre-wide bit of floor between two corners of heavy fournitures isn't a good place to explore unknown objects.

Well, the best place to explore unknown objects is entirely outside my house – and done by a non-family – but that option isn't in my hand right now, so I do the second best: doing it on the 50-centimetre-wide bit of floor between the long cabinet and my writing desk, just in front of my bed.

I rest my cane by my side as I seat myself cross-legged on the floor, in case I need a quick grab for the makeshift weapon. Some rummaging in my nearby backpack insures me a trusty opener – and another makeshift weapon – and now I'm ready to face whatever is in the pesky thing.

My fingers ghost across the top and side surfaces of the box resting right in front of me, gauging the actual size, shape and material of the thing even as I am trying to find the lid of the box among all the crisscrossing sellotapes. The dratted thing feels a little like the box my younger brother used to ship a few knick-knacks here from Taiwan a few months ago…

A delivery box, then? But from where? From whom?

A memory tickles my mind, but it is still too elusive to catch. It definitely has something to do with what I did last night before I went to bed, but I still don't know what it is. It's so frustrating!

O*O

It feels like ages to me; but now, at last, I've managed to find the lid of the box and free it from the length of sellotape sealing it. The thing moved so easily when my efforts shook it round a bit… Now I'm really curious. Why is it so light when it's at least 10X10X20 centimetres?

With my heart hammering again, I reach out my left hand hesitantly into the now-open box, and feel round carefully for the content – or contents. But aside for what seems like a thick envelope taped upright to one of the longer inner sides of the container, my fingers only come across what feels like a glass or polished stone sphere nestled in a nook made up of Styrofoam and taped to it for good measure. No wonder it's so light! The box's almost contains _nothing_! Someone's tricking me again!

But those who like to trick or tease me are either sleeping, abroad, or far away from this house. So who…?

I detach the sellotapes meticulously, bin the now-disused adhesives in a nearby waste-basket, then collect the two little prizes. It feels rather stupid to me now, getting so worked up over this box, although perhaps the sudden appearance of the thing might excuse it somewhat. I just have to ask for my mother or father to read me what's in the envelope in the morning, and meanwhile I can stow it by my bed so I won't forget.

But I'm so, so curious now…

I put the sphere – which strangely feels like I'm holding a bottle nearly full with water – back into its Styrofoam nest, so both of my hands can freely explore the envelope. It is thicker than the usual envelopes I've touched so far; the ones containing papers with Latin characters on them, that is. But how if…

Finding the place where the triangular top flap of the envelop is tucked in, I carefully pry the said flap open and reach in for the content. Judging from the thickness of the paper, and how it is neatly folded into two, and how there seems to be numerous little holes on it, my half-formed thought seems to be right and I am presently holding a letter made up of Braille characters, which is a rare occurance in my life.

I put aside the envelope on the floor by my cane, take one of the original corners of the letter in between my thumb and forefinger, then shake it open. Even before I put the tips of my right-hand fingers to the task of figuring out what's on the letter, an accidental brush between the pad of my right thumb and what was concealed by the folded half has informed me that the letter _really_ contains Braille writing.

It's odd, but I don't feel happy at all about this; neither about figuring something out before the fact for once, nor about finally getting a Braille letter again after years of not corresponding with a fellow blind pen-pal. Something about this just feels… ominous.

The feeling doesn't deter me from trying to find the header of the letter, still, although it does make it harder to concentrate on what character is currently under my fingerpad. Thus I reread things several times and turn the paper round for nearly just as many times to get there. Something rattles the box slightly, but I can't pay attention to it now. I've got to know who's insane – and powerful – enough to bypass the family's usual roundabout postal route.

So I read.

**Dear Virodeil,**

**We are proud to tell you that enclosed in the box is your companion for the next 30 days. Please keep the box and this paper and its envelope at all times so that you can receive advice and some instructions on how to care for your plushy toy for the next month. Please note that, due to his race and status, the physical form of your companion is not readily apparent; and following that note, please allow him a period of adjustment and a portion of your energy, so that he is able to trigger the release of his own power and to imitate the physical body structures common to your country and region.**

**Have a good month!**

**All the best,  
the FAULTTY Foundation**

_DAMN_!

Now I fully remember what made me nervous and jittery about this alien box, and it doesn't relieve me at all, let alone making me glad.

That _mail_! But I didn't send any reply to it, not even the address of my grandparents' residence, not to mention _mine_, and nothing could reach this address before.

And … something about "activation by touch" … ?

_Double damn_!

I whimper mentally. Ossë is a spirit, not a physical being, so might there be a chance that the ball I've just returned to its Styrofoam nest was… was…

The muscles in my arms tremble and weaken on their own accord, making the letter fall into my lap almost noiselessly. My mind blanks with utter panic.

I have just _activated_ the living timebomb!


	3. Day 1 Part 2

**In the Chapter:** Rey, meet your blasting living timebomb… Beware of some surprises along the way, too.**  
Chapter Rating:** PG/K+**  
Chapter Warnings:** Mild Language, Mild Sensitive Topics  
**Chapter Word Count:** 1,388

**Chapter Notes:** I apologise in advance if you find this chapter boring in the end of the reading. I have no excuse to give you, save that this meeting and exploration is necessary. Action will begin in the next chapter, involving Rey's parents and an incident in the bathroom. By the way, I'm not satisfied with the title of this fic; could someone please help me – suggesting for new titles that I might pick?

**Day 1 Part 2  
Stormie and the Hapless Girl**

Monday, 18 Decembre 2011

The first thing that I'm aware of is how tired I am feeling at present. The second thing that catches my attention is how cold and dusty the ceramic floor is beneath my right cheek. The third aspect that I realise is how something seems to blanket me from _under_ my skin: as breezy as cool air, as wet and sticky as salty water, and tingling like when one accidentally puts a finger into a power socket – and I have no clue how or why I can sense these weird feelings in the first place. And the last thing that enters my bleary mind is that I am clutching a small ball or sphere in my left hand—

No. _The_ _sphere_!

The figurative cobwebs are instantly gone from inside my head. Fright replaces it, coupled with indignation and an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

He has been _using_ _my_ _life-force_! He…

Is sitting on the floor before me, I reckon, because I can sense the presence of a tall, upright something a few centimetres away from where I am sprawled.

Great. The very first day and I'm already prostrated on his feet, figuratively or not, and despite my unwillingness. I can't do anything about it too at present. Just so, so tired…

The sphere warms a little right beneath my fingers. My heart skips a beat. I grow even more weary, and the sphere seems to beat with every pulse of my veins and every throb of my exhaustion. I lift my left hand up and shake the sphere weakly, hoping to loosen up the stiff muscles on the fingers around the accursed thing, therefore dislodging what might very well be the cause of my deep, sudden weariness.

My _entire_ being shakes with the motion.

I groan pitifully. My brain spins; my stomach roils; my heart pounds; my muscles twitch uncontrollably. It's as if I were aboard a ship that's wrecked by a bad storm!

Well, a storm indeed, literally. And on that reminder, my stomach heaves again in another dry wretch. My throat is choked by bile and the spasming muscles. Just my luck… To think that I liked him so—!

A sense of disgruntlement floods into my jumbled mind; but it isn't mine. But then who—?

Oh.

I cringe. I completely forgot that my uninvited guest is a thought police of sorts, despite everything. Gah! Misery atop more misery. To think that I'll face another kind of trouble at work too, what with my unfinished report cards…

I lever myself up into a – slouched – sitting position using my right elbow and forearm with difficulty; more like squirming and scrambling into the semblance of an upright position, actually: slouched against the long cabinet. Before I can say or do anything though, something brushes against the back of my hand that's now clutching the sphere rather loosely. I jerk the hand back, gasping, my heart pounding even faster. Chill sets in my bones, it feels, a sense of coldness that is not related to the strange blanket underneath my skin that is slowly but surely tightening. The touch is real, totally _real_, so now I can't deny that I _really_ am having a stranger – an invasive one at that – in my bedroom, a male no less. The tiny space feels trapping, suffocating, now, and the uncertain distance between me and my uninvited guest is quite daunting to me, as I cannot see what he might do next or even where he is in conjunction to my position. Now, as in a very few other occasions, I wish I were yet sighted.

A brief pang of pain and sadness replaces the horror and panic. I blink. It strangely eases my heart and calms my mind. And a new resolve rises: I've been blind since nearly twelve years ago, still going to be blind for the far foreseeable future, so no need to lament over it, and I best use all that I have to their maximum; and my cane is one good start.

My right hand sweeps the floor by my right side in search of my makeshift weapon. I can use it to poke him at least.

I find nothing. Instead, I get poked on the stomach by something that feels suspiciously like the missing cane. (I've got poked by it by my friends either in jest or by accident enough times to recognise its feel.) So, dismayed and curious, I fumble for the thing, hoping to find the culprit poker also by doing so. But just when my searching-and-feeling fingers confirm that it is indeed a cane, _my_ cane, a large, soft but definitely masculine hand covers my left fist still bearing the sphere and grips it lightly. Another foreign sense accompanies the gesture: baffled, not understanding why there's anyone who can't see what's right in front of him or her without any visible maiming on his or her eyes.

I flinch. The source of the sense is familiar. Moreover, the feeling has been innocently delivered, and I can't fault it; but still, it cut me deeply somehow.

The large hand covering mine squeezes my twitching fist briefly. My heart twinges. I never thought him capable of any sympathy, much less empathy, especially after how he reacted just now to our initial meeting. He is truly confusing; I can't make any sense of him at all.

But isn't that true in all the stories about him, both canon and fanfiction?

The sense of bafflement floods my mind again, appended to that very thought, now coupled with interest and curiosity. I cringe away mentally from it: embarrassed, ashamed, angry, awkward, and also confused and uncomfortable about this new way of communication totally alien to me.

And on my reaction, I hear him sigh, both physically and mentally.

It's truly a weird experience for me, and truly unnerving too, now that I've got two tangible evidence that I've got somebody right inside my bedroom: by touch and by hearing, two senses that replaces the duties formerly performed by my sight. I truly can't deny his existence in this way, and he seems to be too cosy to move anywhere else too.

Damn stupid weird foundation.

But I can't carry on cursing, even mentally. The longer I try to stay awake, the more exhausted I feel, and right now the bed and my Spencer and the woollen blanket and the woollen socks sound heavenly to my mind, even though normally I would not think about lying down with a male stranger present in my bedroom – and being so without my parents' and my consent, furthermore.

The large hand has let go of me. I use the chance to crawl away – rather drunkenly – to my bed, using the face of the long cabinet as guide. I try to shake off the sphere and put it in the always-open top drawer of my desk standing by my bed, but it won't come off. Instead, a pair of strong hands lift me by my armpits like a small child and deposit me on the mattress.

My body seizes up in reflexive fear. My heart-rate goes up again. I curl up into myself defencively against the wall on the opposite side of the bed, cowering.

But the pair of hands don't come again. Instead, another sense is conveyed into my mind, this time of a small white mouse chittering in anxiety and chasing its own tail, underlain with the feeling of teasing amusement. It reignites my indignation and, similar to what happened before, banishes the crippling fear. I uncoil myself and shift across the bed, hoping to at least strike at the offender with my boulster or pillow, or perhaps my small unkempt-looking sleeping companion. Sadly however, the world seems to shift alongside my movement, and my mind decides – quite without my heart's permission – that… erh… postponing is the better side of winning. So I change the course and let my body crash against the mattress and pillow, quite forgetting about the presence of another person in the room in the spell of dizziness.

And without mypermission, the world around me turns empty and silent like a door shut in front of my face, and I am buoyed on a tide of warmth that seems to sustain me even as I'm sustaining it.


End file.
